I am not a cowboy poet

Wrote this as a tribute to a cowboy poet I knew.  The writer’s group I was in did a little self publishing book a while back and this was in it. 

I am not a cowboy poet
I don’t ride the earth or sow it.
I don’t give a holler or hoot
About rhyming something like cheroot.

To me, riding on a horse is hell
Not to mention their awful smell
And cows are dirty creatures
Without any redeeming features.

The idea of the dusty trail,
Or a cowpoke’s yodeling wail,
Starts my stomach churning
To where I can feel the bile burning.

No matter what the type of weather
Cowboys spend their days in leather
Whipping, roping and branding: O and X and T.
I think they’re living some sadomasochistic fantasy.

And don’t get me started on the fun
They seem to have with their gun
I think they make quite a show
Because of what they are lacking down below.

Then they spend their nights sitting
While chewing, hawking and spitting
Around the old chuck wagon
Making an odor I can’t imagine.

Now, some people think it’s swell
To write doggerel.
They say cowboy poetry is culture
I really can’t say for sure.

Personally, I don’t understand the lure
Of romanticizing someone so immature
That despite the rugged names of Sam, or Tex or Dan
They’re referring to a boy and not a cowman.

Which is why you’ll never hear from me
A single word of cowboy poetry.